A Typical Day Artie Style
by HodgePodgenPockets
Summary: Hi, new to fan fic. Trying my hand for the first time. This is P.O.V. Artie from the moment he wakes up before he goes through his daily activities at school and Glee. Keeping it consistent with upcoming Season 4. I hope you especially enjoy his interactions with his mom. Comments, suggestions, and barbs are welcome. Will work on a couple more chapters if fans like it.


The clock will hit 5:30 in about nine minutes. Even though he can't read it, from the gaze of the light blue that breathes through the venetian blinds of Artie's room, he's been up twenty-five minutes or so too soon. Having no feeling in his legs doesn't change the restlessness his body can feel. It stirs up on him like a quiver his lower half invisibly initiates and his shoulders have to finish. The myoclonic jerk usually happens after four, when he wakes but forgets to turn over.

Today was a little later for some reason. His legs let him sleep in.

_Ha. Today is going to be awesome._

Nine blurry minutes to kill. Artie knew he could reach to his left to find his glasses, maneuver himself into his chair for the bathroom, and hit the remote to catch any recent entries from the movie preview critic (to which he finds himself arguing at his monitor far too loudly with), or he could simply pull up his Zoom hidden somewhere in his bed and fill the silence with some music.

But he didn't want to miss his morning ritual. It would come soon enough.

_Three taps, _Artie thought. _Loud to soft._

And there they were; one aggressive thud, one just right, and one afterthought that barely scraped the knuckle and wood. What followed was a small creak of the door and a small creak of a female voice.

"Artie."

_Showtime. _And with his eyes tightly shut as if he were being disturbed from a beautiful dream, Artie bursts a small groan from his throat, and throws his blanket over his head in protest.

"Get up, mister," says his mother. The soft creak was now replaced with a more assertive voice. It echoes from thousands of similar morning exchanges. "Come on. We've got to get you on the table if you're dad's going to drop you off today."

Another guttural noise. "Can't he just go in later?"

"No go, Sleeping Beauty," she says. Artie can feel the weight of her body impress next to him. _Wonder if she'll try the sweet approach. _"And don't you try to smooth talk him into skipping his meetings for breakfast ice cream. He's got a presentation."

_Dammit. No go. She's feisty today. _

"Don't fight me. Don't you want to see Marshall before he goes to bed?"

"Five more minutes, Ma."

The blanket levitates away from Artie's body. "Five minutes will be fifty. Get up!"

"Noooooo..."

Glasses push up to Artie's face and the world opens to him the way a lens is turned to sharpen. He pushes them up to hit the center of his forehead. Then he sees her: bright mess of red hair, wonderfully familiar blue eyes, and a faint scar striking from her forehead to her upper lip that causes many second glances from strangers. But it's now just another feature Artie recognizes her with, and the scar is merely part of the many reasons Artie does this ritual.

_I need to up my game here._

Another part of their sleep battle is what Artie does to aggravate her even more by pulling his body away from his mom and towards the edge of the bed. It frightens her on most days.

"Artie! You better not roll on the floor again. I am not dragging you downstairs this time. I will literally pour your aquarium on your head," his mom insists.

_Oh, crap. She's serious._

"Just getting my Zoom." _Find it. Find it, dammit. Found it! _Artie raises the Zoom up like he's holding a get-out-of-jail-free card to his parole officer. "I'm up! I'm up!"

"Good," she says, reaching over for the wheelchair and setting it for him. "I'll see you downstairs in fifteen. You wearing the yellow suspenders today?"

"My favs?" Artie responds. "Nah, today is red."

Artie imagines, as he pulls the straps over his shoulders, quick cut away shots like the ones they did in Schumacher's lesser Batman films when the Dark Knight showed off his new nipple suit. He makes the sounds of whips with every newly assembled accessory, from fastening each clip to his pants, straightening his suspenders with a snap, pulling his fingers through his gloves, and even when running a comb through his hair.

_To the kitchen, Abrams. She'll come get you if you're not there soon. _

Breakfast at the Abrams is more like standing in the middle of a mass of bumper cars that have no boundaries, and no bumpers for that matter. Artie's parents act like they're running late, even though they both have two hours to get to their jobs. After eight years of eventually getting the equipment they've needed to get Artie to school, they still have the memory of the first years dealing with his injury and the time just slipping away from them. They haven't been late since the first year of the accident, but they hurry around like they don't ever want to relive it.

Luckily, Artie doesn't have to be in a bumper cars with them.

"You want turkey today, kiddo?" his dad asks.

"Surprise me, pop."

"Mustard and peanut butter it is," his dad says, smirking at him.

Artie throws him a gag face from across the room. There was a time when he wanted to insist he could make his own lunch, but he began to see how much his dad liked making them. It was something to do in the morning to keep Artie company as he had to lay strapped to the table. Well, not so much lay. Being paraplegic, Artie had to spend an hour suspended vertically so the blood from his legs could get circulation. Morning was the best time to do it, and would afford him more stamina to keep up with the day. But God, did he hate having to do it.

_Twenty-eight minutes. Dammit, I'm counting again. Distraction. Find a distraction._

His prayers were answered by the entrance of his older brother, Marshall.

"Hey, everybody."

The family uttered a resounding "Hey" back to him. Marshall was older than Artie by four years, absolutely a muscle man, and he stunk of an eight hour day of manual labor.

"Hey, Rocketman," Marshall called Artie as he threw him up a high five. "Did the mad scientist shoot you with electricity yet?"

Artie returned their brotherly greeting, "You know Bill Nye's on my speed dial if something goes awry."

"How was your shift, Marshall?" their mom interjected.

"Graveyard always makes me ready for bed," Marshall responded.

"Don't sleep too late. You've got to pick Artie up for therapy after his Glee practice."

Both Artie and Marshall chime together, "Yes, moooooom."

After they laugh at her in the most affectionate way sons do to their mother, the bumper cars continue. Marshall tries to steal some of the dessert dad has made, to which he is properly smacked in the hand. Mom pulls her paperwork together over some dirty dishes. After securing the lunch bags are airtight and Marshall-proof, Dad readies his briefcase and extra tie to head out the door.

_Dad's always spilling sauce on his ties. He just needs a black tie. I don't know why he doesn't want to look like an MIB agent._

Marshall finds something delicious and carries it away upstairs. "I'm out, ya'll. Goodnight. See you at four, Arters."

Artie's dad comes up to the table. "I think my thumb drive is still in the computer. Artie, I can't forget that today."

"No prob."

"Oh, god. Where are my keys?" mom says, lifting all the items she just assembled.

Artie raises his hand towards the toaster. "Mom, mom. Over there." _Of course she goes where I'm not pointing. _"Mom, oooooover there. Yes. Under the bread."

A jingle of the keys makes it around her fingertips. The memory of how the keys got there rushes back through her head. "Oh, right."

"Artie," his dad chimes in. "I've got to grab my belt and we'll be off in ten mins."

"And your thumb drive."

"Ah, yes. I'll get you down soon."

He gives his dad a thumbs up. The lack of vocal response concerns his mom.

"Are you feeling all right, sweetheart?"

_Crap. _"Everything's gravy, mom."

"Ok. I'm headed out." His mom leans in for a kiss. It's a smooshy, side thing, since they can't really reach each other. "Call me if your brother oversleeps."

"You know he will."

"Not funny."

"I'll just strap myself to a bus, mom, Marty McFly style. No worries."

"Still not funny." And with that, she's out the door.

Silence. Finally. The bumper cars have escaped to pinball around elsewhere. Artie decides this is a perfect time to take in a deep breath.

_In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Slow. _

_Slow._

A heaviness overtakes Artie's whole body. His mom's worry was warranted. He's been dizzy thirty minutes into his treatment. The world goes a little dark. It happens often when he's on the table. The flat, silver surface may offer his body the circulation the chair doesn't give, but the utter process often leaves him light headed, and in a gonna-throw-up-after-riding-a-roller-coaster way; not a groovy, spaced out way.

_In through the nose. Out through the mouth._

He doesn't want to blackout. He squishes his eyes together; clenches his fists. He even bites his tongue a little. As the uneasiness wears away, Artie takes in a final, long breath. He feels good. It's passing. He can feel that he's getting back to his old self. Artie looks over at the clock on the oven.

_Nine more minutes strapped to the silver cutting board. I can do that._

Artie nods to himself.

_I knew today was going to be awesome._


End file.
